


Broken Toy Soldier

by Raspberries_Heartbeat



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anxiety, Anxiety Attacks, Couch Cuddles, Crying, Developing Relationship, First Kiss, Hopeful Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Insecure John, John Has PTSD, John Watson Has Feelings, John Watson In Love, John punches Sherlock (not on purpose), Loving Sherlock, M/M, Nightmares, No Mary Morstan, Not Canon Compliant, Post-Reichenbach, Protective Sherlock, Reichenbach Feels, Sharing a Bed, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes Has a Heart, Sherlock in Love, talking about feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-22
Updated: 2018-03-31
Packaged: 2019-03-08 07:28:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13453374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Raspberries_Heartbeat/pseuds/Raspberries_Heartbeat
Summary: After Sherlocks return from the dead, nothing is the same in 221B Baker Street. While Sherlock no longer denies his feelings for his best friend, John closes himself off and keeps his distance.One night after a devastating nightmare, John finally breaks and lets Sherlock in. Feelings are shared (that's never easy), promises are made (keeping them is a challenge), and cuddles are exchanged (they make everything better).***Now with a second chapter! (John is an anxious mess. Sherlock makes it better)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Main themes: John has nightmares. Sherlock is protective. Reichenbach Feels. 
> 
> I'm thinking about starting a new series, where I combine different Sherlock Fanfiction Tropes into small stories like this. Would you guys be interested in that?

The first time Sherlock noticed it, he tried to ignore it.  He should be used to it, by now. John had pretty violent episodes of night terrors in the first year that they’d known each other, caused by his PTSD. Although he never talked about it, Sherlock could tell it was wearing him thin, and at the same time embarrassing him deeply. Still, they happened so frequently, that the flatmates even developed a routine to deal with them. Sherlock would play Vivaldi’s “Summer” (John’s favorite) on his violin at the first sighs of a nightmare (which was, more often than not, the muffled distressed noises travelling down the stairs), steadily increasing the volume, until the noises upstairs came to a stop. Then, he’d prepare two cups of tea, place them on the coffee table, and wait. John would emerge some minutes later, looking like death. He’d smile to thank Sherlock for the tea, but he wouldn’t speak. He’d plop down on the couch beside Sherlock, turn on the TV. They’d watch some crap shows about cars or teenage pregnancies in silence, until John drifted off to sleep again. Of course, the doctor never acknowledged it in the morning; and Sherlock would be dammed if he tried to touch the subject.

This, however. This was different. _They_ were different. Sherlock had died. John almost got married. Sherlock came back. John didn’t marry in the end.

John had been home at Baker Street for one month; Sherlock had come back to the living three months ago. The doctor didn’t take it well, at first. There was arguing, and screaming, and denial, and anguish. John refused to even see Sherlock, let alone live with him, and for a few hellish weeks Sherlock seriously thought he had lost his only friend over a stupid nurse he met at the surgery. He was on the verge of another drug relapse. He didn’t know how he brought up the strength to resist. He was glad he did, though. One day, John was back at his doorstep; soaking wet from the rain, a stormy expression on his face, with two large suitcases in tow. They were together again.

One month later, they were almost back to where they were before. _Almost_. Something small, yet significant seemed to be missing. Before the fall, silence was easy and comfortable, now it was tense; they used to share causal touches in the enclosed space of their home, now John kept his distance; there used to be a glimmer of warm trust in John’s gaze whenever he looked at Sherlock, now there was always a small glimpse of doubt. Sherlock didn’t anticipate that he’d miss it. But he did.

 It was a strange concept for him, but he felt himself been drawn to John in a way he could not fully wrap his head around. He didn’t just want the doctor to be happy, like he’d guess was normal for a friendship, but wanted him to be happy _because of him_. He wanted John to like him again, to be comfortable around him again, to trust him again. Never in his life would he have thought that he’d sit in is darkened living room at 3 am on a Thursday, watching two steaming cups of tea go cold and just _miss_ how his life had been before. But here he was.

Maybe, he thought to himself when the sun started to rise over London’s rooftops, he was in love with John Watson. Not that he’d ever do something about it. The chance that his feelings would be reciprocated was non-existent at this point. Maybe things would have been different if he hadn’t faked his death. But he did. It seemed like John was million miles away sometimes, without any chance to connect to him. The thought made him inexplicably sad.

Then John would appear in the kitchen, and make tea, and tell Sherlock about his schedule in the surgery. He’d talk, and shove some toast in Sherlock’s face, and then he’d leave for the day. He never realized the melancholy in the detective’s expression.

It was the third night spend in that fashion when it happened. John had a nightmare. Sherlock realized the telltale sounds instantaneously. He thought the doctor had overcome the deep psychological problem, but apparently, they still happened from time to time. Maybe, he’d been having them the whole time since he had been back. Maybe he had just managed to hide it. Maybe Sherlock just didn’t notice it, because he tried to give John the privacy he seemed to desire. Maybe he could have helped John again. If only he chose to notice.

Small, anguish whimpers reached his ears. He clung onto the cup in an effort to keep himself from going upstairs. He wasn’t sure John would appreciate it. So, he sat. And stood. And played the violin. And tried to ignore the pained noises coming from upstairs.

Maybe his heart broke.

Just a little.

\---

The second, third, and forth time Sherlock noticed went by similarly. The fifth time, however, he made a mistake. It was the fact that between the usual groans, an almost inaudible “Sherlock” joined the mix, and well, that was the final straw. John having terrible, crippling nightmares just a few metres away from him was one thing, but John having terrible, crippling nightmares _about him_ just a few metres away was a completely different matter.

He didn’t think (a rare occurrence for a genius), he rushed up those stairs before his brain even had the chance to check in on him. Something about John caused him to short-circuit like that. When his consciousness went online again, he was two steps inside of the doctor’s bedroom. A small line of blue moonlight illuminated the tossing and turning figure on the bed. Sherlock’s heart gave a painful squeeze.

John was a sorry sight. The detective had never actually seen him have a nightmare, and now he sort of wished he hadn’t come up the stairs. The pictures (let alone the _noises_ ) were immediately ingrained on his hard drive. He’d probably never get rid of the sight of John Watson- _his_ strong, stubborn, trusty doctor and army captain- scrunching up his face in an expression of pure anguish and despair. His eyes behind his closed eyelids were moving rapidly. Sherlock watched helplessly how his best friend clutched the blanked so hard that his knuckles created a hard contrast to the softness of the sheets, shivering by the intensity of the nightmare he must be experiencing.                    Sherlock might have stood in the doorway until the waves subsided, unable to do anything but stare and feel his heart sink in his chest, when John wouldn’t have started to whine- actually _whine_ \- his name. It was like being kicked in the stomach. Forceful, breathtaking, _devastating_.

In this split of a second, Sherlock felt something he had never felt in his entire life: Regret. Technically, he knew that it had been the best possible plan. It was flawless, until the very last detail. And its success was an understatement; he had destroyed Moriaty’s web methodically and thoroughly. But- here John whimpered again, even more pitiful than the first two times- at what costs? He stood next to the bed before he even was aware that he’d been moving again.

During their first year of sharing a flat, Sherlock acquired a vast knowledge about how to behave around people suffering from PTSD: No quick movements. Always stay in eyesight. Physical contact can trigger a panic attack. _Don’t approach when panicked_.

Standing in the dark bedroom, he did _none_ of those things. He’d later realized that he had acted incredibly stupid. That he reacted, before he thought about it. But in that moment, nothing else mattered, but getting John awake. Getting John out of there. He started out with shakingly calling his name, and when the doctor didn’t stir, he made the panicked decision to _touch_ his shoulder. The plan was to shake him awake.

Well, the plan succeeded.

The aftermath, however, turned out completely different than Sherlock had anticipated. Truth be told, he didn’t really think past the ‘wake John up’ bit. His brain was completely offline, every other cell of his being concentrated on getting his best friend out of his nightmare. His brain didn’t tell him to approach the doctor, his heart did. And his heart, apparently, was an idiot. A little voice in the back of his head told him as much, and it actually came as no surprise. He sort of anticipated John wouldn’t react well. However, he didn’t anticipate him to take it this bad.

In the moment the doctor’s eyes flew open, his dominant fist connected forcefully with Sherlock’s jaw. There was a sickening sound when Sherlock’s teeth crashed together, and a gush of blood splattered through his now split-open lower lip. The detective staggered backwards with the force of it, crashing into the doorframe. John was heaving, gulping in deep breaths of air, as if he’d been suffocated. Sherlock was too shocked to move for some seconds, rooted right to his cramped spot against the wood, a sharp blinding pain throbbing through his whole lower jaw.

It wasn’t the first time John had hit him. It wasn’t even the first time the doctor had _punched_ him like that. But this. This was different. The past times, John always had had some resemblance of control over himself. This John, however, had no control. This John was like a frightened animal, defending itself. Unwillingly, Sherlock remembered that John was more than capable of killing a man with his bare hands. The utter fear and guilt in the doctor’s gaze told him he remembered it, too. Not that he was afraid of his best friend, not by far. But John was a dangerous man. And Sherlock had made the mistake of underestimating him.

Although it was kind of hard to see the doctor like that, as he buried his head in his hands, still breathing heavily. “Sherlock” his voice was oddly strained. “God, Sherlock. You madman.” John voice conveyed so much shame, so much disgust about his own action.

The detective’s stomach constricted painfully. John shouldn’t feel guilty, because of him. He shouldn’t feel ashamed of himself, because of him. The doctor shouldn’t downgrade himself, because of him.

“I’m sorry” The doctor peeked through his fingers, surprised. Sherlock had never apologized to him. For nothing. Now, it seemed like this sentence couldn’t convey more meaning. “John… I... I’m so _sorry_ ” his voice cracked at the last syllable, betraying his state of emotional turmoil. Sherlock never cried in front of anyone. But in that moment, he came pretty damn close.

He had been stabbed before; he wished he could be stabbed again, if only his heart wouldn’t hurt so much. If only he could stop to cause John such deep agony. This… everything of this was his fault. The realization hit him harder than the actual punch.

“Can you give me a moment?” John mumbled, his voice exhausted and muffled by his palms. Numbly, Sherlock reached for the doorknob without turning around, without leaving his best friends hunched over- _broken_ \- form with his eyes. He stumbled in the hallway and down the stairs on auto-pilot, went to the kitchen to make two cups of tea. While the kettle started to boil, he allowed himself to sink against the counter and let out a few dry sobs.

When John emerged ten minutes later in a dressing gown and his medical kit, he didn’t look Sherlock in the eyes. He continued to not look him in the eyes, while he sat the injured detective down at the kitchen table to treat his rapidly darkening bruise. They stayed silent the whole time, until John pressed a cooling-pack against the injured area. They didn’t talk when they sat down at the couch, and John turned on the TV. They didn’t talk, for two whole hours, until John stretched, stood up and mumbled something about getting ready for his day at the surgery.

Sherlock wanted to talk, wanted to reason, but he was afraid his voice would fail him. All he could come up with at the moment was “Please don’t leave me” or something equally pathetic. Naturally, he stayed silent as well. John was already halfway out of the room, when he seemed to change his mind. He turned around, fixed Sherlock with a gaze that made his stomach churn and his knees weak; and crossed the distance between them, to pull his best friend into the first hug they shared since Sherlock came back from the fall. Everything was warm, and soft, and fuzzy- Sherlock fought the urge to clutch the body of the smaller man closer to himself. He could feel John’s rapid heartbeat against his chest. “Don’t do that again” the doctor whispered into the fabric of Sherlock’s old dressing gown. “ _Please, don’t_ do that again. _”_

Whether he was talking about waking him up, or faking his death, Sherlock couldn’t be sure.

 ---

Naturally, Sherlock did it again. Or found himself almost doing it again, more precisely. The waking thing, mind you. The week went by in a blur. They didn’t really talk- not about what had happened, not at all – John retreated in the evenings relatively early, leaving Sherlock more often than not sitting alone in the dark, eating himself away on crippling self-doubt. John didn’t have another nightmare- or, more precisely, a nightmare that Sherlock witnessed- until five days later.

Sherlock’s first instinct was to stay right where he was. The bruise on his jaw still covered most of the area, obscenely darkened in different shades of purple and yellow. Lestrade had expressed concern he first time he saw Sherlock on a case three days before- without John, was the doctor seemed to spend more time at the surgery (probably to spend less time with Sherlock)- but was unable to get the detective to talk to him. Sherlock kind of wished he would have been able to let the DI in on the true reason behind the bruise and John’s absence, maybe ask him what to _do_ (for he was out of his depth here). But he didn’t. He feared John wouldn’t appreciate it. Lestrade dropped it eventually.

Sherlock managed to ignore the groans and whines for about an hour. They increased steadily in frequency, volume, and intensity, until they seemed to merge into one, long, pained groan. Sherlock was on the bottom of the stairs, when everything stopped. John must have woken up, then.

What Sherlock should do was turn around, make some more tea to leave on the counter, give John some privacy. What Sherlock did was to grab the almost cold tea he already made as soon as he realized John was having a nightmare, head upstairs, and knock at John’s closed bedroom door. There was some shuffling of sheets inside, but otherwise he was met with silence. Deciding it was better than resistance, he opened the door enough to slip inside, and closed it again behind himself.

“I made t-“ he started, and stopped when he saw the way John was looking at him. Something was different than the last time. Something was different than every other last time he saw John after a nightmare. This… something was sparkling in the doctor’s eyes: Small, and lost and…. Vulnerable. Something in those eyes caused a surge of protectiveness to wash over him.

Maybe he had been brooding over the wrong approach all the time. Evidently, he was the cause of John’s distress. But, instead of closing himself in and lamenting about changing the past, he should have made an effort to change the future. To actually _help_ John. To _be there_ for John. The problem was his fault. It was only fair that the solution was his doing as well. All this time he spent moaning over why John would never be in love with him, could have been invested in actually giving John something about him to love. He shouldn’t have left John alone with it. He wouldn’t leave John alone with it, anymore. 

He took one step closer to the bed, approaching John with slow, controlled movements. Upon closer inspection, he realized John’s shirt was _drenched_ in sweat, while his blogger shivered violently. His gaze never left Sherlock’s frame, until the detective stood right next to his hunched-over form. The moonlight illuminated Sherlock’s features. John’s gaze darted from the tea in his best friend’s hand, to the purple bruise on his jaw. Seeing the injury, he had caused must have been the final straw; before Sherlock could anticipate what was happening, John’s eyes welled up with tears.

For a second or two the detective was shocked into a state of numbness. Never, not _once_ in all these years they had known each other, he had seen John cry. He had seen him screaming, and shouting, mourning, and devastated. But never did he see him break down like that. John _never_ cried. At least…. Not when he knew Sherlock would notice. An unwanted memory of a graveyard on a rainy Monday afternoon forced itself into Sherlock’s mind. He stomped it down.  That was then, this is now.

A choked-up sound pulled him out of his mind. John covered his face with his hands in an attempt to muffle his wet sobs. He was not really succeeding.

“I’m sorry” he choked with a small, trembling voice. “I..I… sorry, everything is fucked up”.

Sherlock didn’t have any experience with consoling people. He usually didn’t find himself in any situation where he would use this skill. He usually didn’t care enough. So, he was clawing to the few things he knew: He knew that John liked tea and warm showers. He knew John slept best when his sheets were fresh. He knew John felt lonely sometimes, and he knew that John was a physical man; a man who enjoyed the closeness and warmth of another person’s touch.

The tea was cold, but closeness he could do. If his friend would allow him, that is.

Without further ado, he bent closer to the trembling figure- surprised as the teacup was knocked out of his hand, soaking the sheets completely, with the force of John’s sudden movement. He nothing but threw himself into the detective’s arms. It was messy- there’s tea, and snot, and sweat- it was also awkward- Sherlock is half kneeling on the bed to keep himself upright, while John buried his face against his friend’s neck while his hands clung frantically onto Sherlock’s dress shirt. The shirt Sherlock noted absently, dampened rapidly from a mixture of sweat and tears.

There was no sound for some minutes except for John’s sobs. He should probably say something, Sherlock thought. Anything. But the generic so-called comforting phrases like “It will be okay” felt inappropriate, for they were hollow, they didn’t really _mean_ something, they were nothing but fake niceties.

Instead, he said the only things which didn’t seem hollow to him, didn’t seem fake and pretentious; the only promise he could keep: “I’m here. And I’ll stay. And I…. I’ll try, with everything I have, to not leave you alone anymore”

 It was a tad too awkward, a tad too uncomfortable, a tad too honest; and Sherlock feared he’d crossed some sort of line, when he felt John tense up in his arms. He even prepared himself for another punch, if he was being honest with himself. It never came.

Instead, he felt the blogger sag against him fully, like dead weight. “That’s enough. I- _Sherlock_ , that’s so much more than enough”

A sense of consideration he had never known before washed over the detective, when he held his best friend, a little after 4:30 on a Saturday morning, and there was nothing but moonlight, and promises, and blankets; blankets surrounding them, cocooning them, keeping them safe. John calmed, eventually. Sherlock patiently switched between rubbing the sore muscles of the doctor’s back, and cradling his head securely. The erratic breathing against Sherlock’s neck slowed periodically, until it was nothing more than a warm shudder. Everything was damp and clammy at this point, causing John to shiver a little in the cold air of the room. Noting his bloggers state of uncomfortableness, Sherlock tried to loosen the embrace, but John persistently buried his face deeper into his friend’s collar.

“C’mon” Sherlock whispered, his voice underlined with a soft, caring tone it didn’t usually held. It was different, it was intimate, it was special. “Take a shower. You’re drenched and freezing”

 John momentarily tightened his grip, before he eased out of the embrace altogether. He didn’t look at Sherlock, but he didn’t have to for the master of deduction to pick up the sense of shyness and vulnerability still surrounding his blogger. Another strong emotion washed over him. To protect John, to please John, to make him _happy_. Because John trusted him with this vulnerable part of himself; it was a gift; it was important … big …significant and…. Overwhelmingly real. Sherlock just wanted to take care of John. Because John deserved it. John deserved everything.

For the first time, the realization of being in love with his best friend didn’t evoke melancholy longing of a past left behind, but felt… empowering. This- _they-_ had the potential to be so much more. To be something beautiful, something true, the only thing that mattered. Something to live for; because the only thing that mattered so much more than cases, and crimes, and deductions -Sherlock realized in that fraction of a second- was John Watson’s well-being. His happiness.

He had to smile, despite the situation, for his heart clenched in the best kind of ways. He had never felt like this before. This connection. This selflessness. This utter devotion towards another human being. Gently, he cupped John’s wet and hot cheek, which caused his friend to finally look up. Despite their red, puffy, and slightly swollen state, the doctor’s eyes held a mosaic of emotions.

“I’ll wait right here” Something akin to relief flashed in those eyes, before John lowered his gaze in apparent embarrassment. Then he stood, a little shaky, a little awkward, a little lost, and staggered towards his drawer, pulled out a random boxershorts and t-shirt, and vanished in the bathroom without a word. When the shower started running, Sherlock released a breath he didn’t realize he had been holding. The next twenty minutes, he busied himself with changing John’s bedding, putting on pajama pants and a tattered shirt, and making two fresh cups of tea- always with a sense of peace surrounding him.

 Just as he sat down on the bed to nurse his own cuppa, a freshly showered and sheepish John entered the room. He scratched his neck, standing in the room a bit undecided. Sherlock patted the free space beside him, giving his best friend a reassuring smile. John complied clumsily, sat down, sighed.

“Thanks” he murmured, his voice husky from exertion. Sherlock offered him the tea, John drank gratefully. They sat in silence a couple of minutes, drinking tea. Eventually, the doctor broke the silence, sighing.

“I’m sorry about this” he waved his hands around for emphasis, gesturing between them. Sherlock opened his mouth to protest, but John continued. “You shouldn’t have to put up with that. With me. I mean, honestly, I’m having troubles keeping up at the best of times, but like this….” He trailed off, angrily frowning at his tea. “I’m basically useless. A stupid broken toy soldier”

“That’s bullshit!”

At that exclamation, John looked up in surprise, self-deprivation forgotten for a second. He stared flabbergasted, until an involuntary giggle slipped through his lips. “Sorry. It’s just, I thought I’d never see the day where a posh bastard like you swears” He covered his mouth, still smiling despite himself.

“I’m not that posh” Sherlock argued playfully. “I could compete with your filthy mouth any day” He bumped his shoulder against John’s gently. “Git”, he added, for good measure. Another giggle escaped John, but he gravitated into the point of contact, gratefully. The detective placed an arm around John’s shoulder and pulled him into his side.

Although it was completely new to them, they seemed to accept this new form of contact easily, like it was something that was supposed to be. Like something that was bound to happen eventually. Like it meant something. Anything. Everything.

“You don’t need to apologize. I’m the one fucking things up here”

John gave him a look. “I almost broke your jaw” he pointed out.

“And I broke your heart” Sherlock countered instantly, before he realized what he had said. John’s face crumbled a little, but he fought to get some composure back.

“Faire is square, I’d say” the attempted humor sounded strange to both of their ears.

They had never talked about this. And now they were well on their way and horribly unprepared. Sherlock swallowed a lump down in his throat. This was the moment he should show courage, he should start protecting John, start to make use of his promise. If only, it wouldn’t be so damn hard. Suddenly, John wasn’t the only vulnerable one on the bed. “John I-“

“I know, Sherlock” The detective closed his mouth with a click. “I know” John continued, voice small and breathy, and… sad. “what it was all about. I know you had to do it. And I’m… I’m grateful you did it, but… God I sound like such an asshole, don’t I? You sacrificed yourself for our safety, for _my_ safety. You saved my life, and yet I-” he hid his face in his hands, voice coming out muffled and strained from behind his palms.

Sherlock squeezed his friend’s shoulders a little tighter. He didn’t know what else to do. John drew in a shaky breath that sounded a little too close to a sob.

“Yet I can’t get that moment out of my head when I saw you falling. It’s haunting me whenever I close my eyes. I know now that…it wasn’t real but… I didn’t know then. Hell, part of me still doesn’t believe that I have you back”

At this, he crumbled in on himself again, hugging his own knees, making himself as small as possible. Hiding.

“I’m scared” he admitted quietly. “I’m scared whenever you’re not around that you… you leave again. Because I’m… I’m broken, aren’t I? I thought I got myself fixed but… it feels like breaking all over again. I” he hiccupped quietly, letting out an almost pained sound. “I should be mad at you, for deceiving me. But I’m not, Sherlock.”

Finally, he turned his head to look at Sherlock. Something constricted in Sherlock’s chest when he saw there were some new unshed tears gathering in the doctor’s eyes. He shouldn’t be relived hearing it. John had all the right to be mad at him. To hate him, even. It would probably make things so much easier. But he didn’t. And Sherlock felt like his heart was bursting with relief.

“I’m mad at myself for feeling this way, I try to keep my distance during the day but at night… I realize how much I… I missed you, Sherlock”

“I missed you, too” the detective murmured quietly. A significant pause. Something was about to change.  He was ready. “That’s why I’m not leaving” he continued, gently maneuvering both of them a bit, so he could lie them down, to drape the covers over both of their bodies. “We don’t have to miss each other anymore, if we just stay together. How’s that sound?” 

John, slightly surprised by the change of position, and by Sherlock’s open confession of his emotions, gave his friend a look over his shoulder. Sherlock, meanwhile was busy rearranging them so that he could securely wrap his body around the doctor’s smaller frame from behind. Keeping him safe and warm, in a cocoon made of blankets and body heat.

He didn’t know where this strike of caretaking came from, but he was grateful for it. If he actually tried to solve this problem with logic, his head might explode. Or his heart shattered a little more. This conversation was much too big to hold it so early in the morning. They weren’t ready. Hell, they’d probably never be. But, that wasn’t the point. The only point was to give John the feeling that he was cared for. That he wouldn’t be left alone again. That Sherlock was _there_. Of course, it wasn’t that easy. They both knew it. But it was a start, a start they both needed, and a sweet promise of a future that didn’t look so lonely anymore. The old wound would still need some time to heal, but they weren’t in a rush. They had the rest of their lives, as far as Sherlock was concerned. Not, that he’d ever admit something so shockingly personal. At least, not right now.

 John smiled, and it felt like the first honest smile he had given Sherlock in the last three months.        

“I like the sound of that”

He would heal. They would get through this. It might not be easy. It might not be pleasant. But they got each other to pull through. That’s all that matters in the end, right? Sherlock placed his hands securely against John’s chest. He could feel the rapid heartbeat underneath his palm. It made him feel calm. All the hardships, all the pain, all the isolation he had to endure during his absence faded away in comparison to holding John Watson in his arms. For having this, he realized, when he nuzzled closer into the pillows, pulling the smaller body against him a little tighter, all the agony had been worth it.

“Maybe you’re broken” he whispered close to John’s ear. “We both are. Doesn’t mean we can’t fix each other, right?”

Sherlock wasn’t an idiot. He knew hugs and confessions wouldn’t keep the nightmares away instantly. He knew it would probably take much time for John to trust him again. He knew they had many obstacles to overcome, and he knew they had demons they need to fight. He knew John might never feel the same way he did, hell he didn’t even know if John would want this close contact to continue. He knew nothing, basically, only that John was vulnerable right now, and that he had probably never been more in love with him.

Yet everything didn’t matter, everything faded away, when he heard two words, hastily mumbled: “Thank you”.

Just like that, he knew. They were together now, finally. Not only physically but emotionally, as well. Just like that, he realized they’d make it. They always had. It would take time. But it would be worth it.

For the first time since he came back to life, Sherlock felt like home.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is an anxious mess. Sherlock makes it better.

There were days when John Watson just didn’t _want_. To stand up. To leave the flat. To face the world. There were days when he felt a deep anxiety creep up in his chest from the moment on he opened his eyes. Those were the days, usually, when he beat himself to get to the surgery and returned as an emotionally exhausted mess. Sometimes, when the panic crushed his lungs to the point where he couldn’t breathe anymore, he made up some excuse and stayed home. He felt a deep sense of shame, on those days. He was a grown-up man. He had fought in a war. He caught criminals.  He shouldn’t be nauseated by the thought of leaving the safety of his bedroom.

But he was.

When Sherlock had been _gone_ , there had been no day without a fight, no commuting without the awful moment when he was sure he would pass out, no appointment without a tremor in his hands. He just lived with it, _what else_ was he supposed to do? He would not stop living because Sherlock was gone. Although, it seemed like a tempting alternative.

Now Sherlock was _back_. The tremors stopped. His pulse didn’t quicken anymore as soon as the door of the flat closed behind him. He was better.

 

He was _almost fine_.

 

They started sharing a bed. John, still overcome by a very special sense of embarrassment, was grateful for it. It was easier to fight the urge to close in on himself when he wasn’t alone during the night, in the mornings. It was easier to feel calm and not work himself in a state of anxiety for _no apparent reason_.

 

It was easier when Sherlock was with him, period.

 

Sherlock had grown more sensitive to the fragility of John’s mental state and made sure to make the doctor comfortable with himself. He helped John _breathe_ , when the doctor thought he was suffocating. He made sure John still slept in his bed even though he was up all night working on a case. He carefully wrapped his scarf around John’s neck when he felt the tremors in the doctor’s hands. He _cared for_ John, like a partner would. A lover.

The thought made John flush with an emotion he couldn’t quite place, so he chose to ignore it. Not as easy to ignore was the way this special attention made him feel. Small. Vulnerable. Loved. Things that did not really fit the image he had of himself; things he normally deny he needed; things he shouldn’t disclose in front of anyone. He was John H. Watson from the British Army. He was a doctor, a safer of lives. Nobody would take him seriously anymore if they knew that the great John Watson sometimes needed to be coddled in order to function. Sherlock most certainly didn’t take him seriously anymore.

Sometimes, when it was six am and Sherlock wasn’t in bed with him, when he buried his nose in the cold pillow to smell fancy body wash and rain and _Sherlock_ , he asked himself when the detective would stop taking pity on him. Their relationship had changed, and John wished he wouldn’t rely on Sherlock like he did. He _needed_ Sherlock, more than he had before, and the situation was both reliving and terrifying. He wished he could give something- anything- back. But nothing was enough. All he could do was to not bother his friend any more than he already did, with his pathetic neediness and pray that Sherlock would not stop caring for him. He _longed for_ it deep within his core, more than he would ever admit.

Maybe he was in love with Sherlock Holmes. Not that he would ever do something about it. After all, who in the world would want his broken parts?

 

The moment John opened his eyes, he just _knew_ it was one of those days. The bad days.

He turned, overcome by the urge to bury his face in his friend’s shirt and wait for Sherlock to make everything _alright_ again, he found the left side of the bed no longer occupied. He closed his eyes and breathed, stubbornly ignoring the deep feeling of disappointment that settled in his heart almost instantly.

‘No’, he told himself. ‘Not today’.

 

So, he ignored the uneasiness bubbling around in his belly and stood, and showered, and made breakfast- all the while just teetering on the edge of a panic attack but willing it away with pure stubbornness. He didn’t have a shift at the surgery today (for this fact he was a tiny bit glad) and had just mentally prepared himself for pottering restlessly around the flat all morning, when his phone flashed with a new message:

‘Bishopsgate Avenue 105. Come if convenient. Could use your doctorly expertise. – SH’

During the first week of their new arrangement, Sherlock had refused to take cases. He wanted to make sure John was alright at any given moment, and it had taken a whole lot convincing on John’s part that keeping watch on him all the time really wasn’t necessary. Although Sherlock’s devotion made the special feeling in his gut tingle pleasantly, John wasn’t entirely comfortable with being over-cared like that. It was hard to admit it to himself the few times he really did need Sherlock, so naturally all the other instances made him deeply embarrassed. He was a grown man, dammit.

Luckily, he almost never needed to admit that he longed for Sherlock in _that_ way because the detective deduced it. He tried to encourage John to open up about those times, though. John never did.

He would be _dammed_ if he ever needed to say it out loud.

 

Now, he was having a really bad day and Sherlock asked for his help. He hadn’t come along on many cases since he moved back in, mainly because of all the emotional obstacles in their way. This was the first time Sherlock openly asked him to come along, openly admitted that he needed it. It felt good, perhaps a bit too good, to be needed by Sherlock again. And the younger man always was so damn excited about a new mystery and the possibility of John noticing him being brilliant. It always made his eyes shine _just so_ , in a way that made John melt. He couldn’t say no to him now. He just couldn’t.

He _should have_ , perhaps, John realized when his stomach gave another painful lurch while he sat in the back of the cab.

His fingers twitched against his thigh, restlessly, while he increasingly became aware of his own breathing. He tried to focus on something else; swallowed but his mouth was uncomfortably dry. There was a lump in his throat that simultaneously complicated breathing and made him feel like throwing up. The closer he came to the address, the lesser he had his panic under control; and by the time he left the cab on shaking legs, he was pretty sure everyone would notice. Maybe he should just…. Turn back to endure another torturous cab ride and-

“John!”

Well. No turning back now. There was Sherlock, all billowing coat and brilliancy wearing _that_ smile, that special smile exclusively reserved for the doctor, and John felt some of his anxiety melt.

 

Everything was easier when Sherlock was with him, period.

 

He gave a shaky smile back, letting himself be dragged towards the crime scene, passing some Yarders whose presence normally delighted him but today caused an overwhelming sensation of distress in his chest. He wasn’t ready to be among people, he realized suddenly, and yet here he was. Exposed.

He was sure everyone could see that he was struggling today, and this thought caused a new wave of shame to crash upon him. Sherlock’s warm fingers around his wrist grounded him, but there was no way in hell the detective didn’t _notice_. John’s heartbeat was far too frantic, he could feel it thrumming through his veins uncomfortably, and his skin was clammy and cold, goosebumps surrounding the warmth of Sherlock’s grip. He was mortified.

Sherlock asked for his help and here he was, in no condition to be of _any_ help for _anyone_. He couldn’t even help himself right now, he just wanted Sherlock to _help him_. But the detective seemed to be oblivious to the state the doctor has worked himself into, at least he made no move to comfort John in any way, but proceeded to rattle on about the murder weapon, asking something about extended bruising.

 

John wasn’t paying attention to any of that; he was much more concerned with inwardly FREAKING OUT, because surely Sherlock must have noticed, why did Sherlock not DO anything about it? The realization that he wanted Sherlock to care for him right now- in front of all these people, in public-  was almost as devastating as the shattering proposition that maybe Sherlock did not WANT to care for him anymore.

Sherlock’s hand left his wrist and John swayed dangerously, leaning against the nearest wall, mumbling something about bruising to at least appear useful in any way. The information must have been enough, for Sherlock started firing a new wave of deductions, not even looking at John, who was no slumping against the wall, breathing heavily.

He pressed his eyes close and opened them again, in a desperate attempt to regain some _focus_ , to get everything back under _control_. He barely noticed Lestrade standing next to him, until the DI spoke softly. Concerned.

“You’re doing alright, mate? You look rather shaken.”

‘I’m fine’ the doctor wanted to answer, deeply mortified that his friend and half a dozen other Yarders saw him _like that_ , but annoyingly he noticed that he just couldn’t breathe _properly_ , so he pressed his lips in a thin line, and shook his head a little. Slowly, he sunk down into a sitting position, for his knees where now shaking violently, to curl in on himself, to hide. His head was spinning from the intensity of the panic attack. A panic attack for _no apparent reason_.

Now everybody at the Yard knew how pathetic he really was. How broken. Nobody would respect him after this. Hell, he didn’t even respect himself anymore.

 

“Sherlock?”

“Lestrade, can’t you see I’m busy doing YOUR work while you-“

the detective turned mid-sentence and stopped abruptly when took in the sight of a very concerned-looking DI kneeling next to a very miserable-looking doctor. All his pompous air left him at an instant.

“It was the mid-wife. Had an affair with the father. Murder-weapon will be found in the garden pond.” he finished his deduction hurriedly, no longer caring about showing off his intellect. Not when John was obviously having a panic attack, a panic attack he very obviously noticed but ignored in favor of boasting.

Of course, he had picked up the signs, but thought perhaps John just felt a bit under the weather, like he had the past three days. Maybe, if he had taken down his ‘genius detective’ attitude long enough to take a look at his friend properly, he would have shortened this experience for his troubled friend. But he didn’t. The realization punched him in the gut.

But he did not waste any time on self-pity (there was enough time to ponder about his error once John was fast asleep during the night), but inched closer to the huddled-over, shaken form.

He made eye-contact with Lestrade and whispered: “Stay back, please. He’s having a panic attack.”, because John hated to be crowded during a panic attack, only Sherlock’s closeness was tolerated, _needed_ even.

 

“Hey” he spoke with the soft voice solely reserved for moments like these. “You’re alright.”

John sucked in a sharp breath upon hearing that familiar tone that filled him with calm instantly. He felt the warmth of Sherlock inching closer to him, felt the detective’s kneecaps -he was now kneeling in front of him, dirtying his posh trousers with grass stains- bump against his shoes. He shouldn’t need this. But right now, he didn’t _care_.

“We’re done here.” Sherlock softly pulled his blogger closer to him, who gratefully sagged against him. The detective felt eyes upon his back, until Lestrade’s hushed orders made them disappear. Silently, all the Yarders left the crime scene to give the pair some privacy. Lestrade squeezed Sherlock’s shoulder on his way out in an appreciative gesture, and Sherlock nodded in his direction.

“C’mon.” Sherlock murmured against his best friend’s hair once they were alone. “Let’s go home” his warm breath caressed softly against John’s neck.

Everything about Sherlock in those moments was so careful and loving, that John wanted to cry. Nobody had ever cared for him like that. Most of the time, he didn’t think that he deserved this care that Sherlock lavished upon him. But it felt so _good_.

He tightened his grip around the slender waist. “And once we’re home, I’m going to make us some tea and get the blankets and then we’ll stay on the sofa all day. Yes?”             John nodded against the fabric of Sherlock’s shirt, feeling inexplicably relived. Sherlock didn’t stop caring for him. Sherlock was right here and made everything better.

 

John spend the whole cab ride home huddled against Sherlock’s side, not looking up once. Sherlock let him. The smaller man’s body was still taut like a string, buzzing with nervous energy. Sherlock gently massaged the soft patch between thumb and forefinger, until John’s hand wasn’t jerking anymore. He hummed a sound of appreciation which resonated deep within John.

He needed this.

God, how he needed this.

 

Once they arrived at Baker Street, Sherlock stayed true to his word, made a whole pot of Oolong, and turned their sofa into a blanket-nest. John was stuck with the intense emotions, when he returned from changing out of his sweated-through clothes and could do nothing more except for standing in front of the sofa and trying in earnest not be overwhelmed with the amount of affection directed towards him.

Maybe, he loved Sherlock. Not that he would ever do anything about it.

Sherlock had set them up, with John’s back comfortably resting against Sherlock’s stomach, and the detective’s lanky legs enclosing his sturdy thighs. The points of contact, of warmth, helped him calm, until he was basically laying boneless against his friend. They settled on watching a bunch of animal documentaries on Discovery channel. John’s mind calmed with the images of a natural world that was completely detached from his insecurities and worries. Before he knew it, he felt comfortable with himself again; enough so that he allowed himself some soft giggles when Sherlock corrected the narrator’s monologue about wild bees. Sherlock paused. John turned his head a little to see what had brought this on, and immediately regretted it. The detective was looking at him _like that_ again; so loving, that it made John’s heart throb forcefully. Sherlock didn’t love him. That wasn’t possible.

“Are you better?” a soft baritone rumble. The sound John had learned to love. Not trusting himself, John only nodded. “Good.” Sherlock nodded to himself. Drew small circles on the blanket above John’s stomach. The act was so strangely intimate that John felt his throat close up. He did not deserve this. How _could_ he? Sherlock Holmes was the man who had died for him and had returned for him.                                                                                                                                                                     

He had deceived him, that he did, but was working, against everything John thought he knew about his friend, to re-gain John’s trust in such a thoughtful manner nobody had ever bothered with before. John had never been treated like this before. John had never been _cared for_ like this before. And what did he have to give? So many broken pieces. Way too many broken pieces.

 

Sherlock felt the body in his embrace tense up. He reacted immediately: “I’m sorry I didn’t notice sooner.” John sucked in a sharp breath, because, really Sherlock shouldn’t need to notice “it” sooner, there shouldn’t be an “it” to notice at all. Why was there always an “it” with him? Why hadn’t he felt _normal_ since he returned from the war? Why couldn’t he be _fixed_?

“But you should have told me. I wouldn’t have made the- admittedly unnecessary- request”

“Sherlock, no” It was the first time he spoke since they left the crime scene. His voice resonated hoarsely with the lack of use. “You shouldn’t have to adjust every single one of your actions to me. That shouldn’t be necessary.”

“But today was unnecessary” the younger man countered. “I just… wanted to have you around.” He cleared his throat, slightly embarrassed. “Pat my ego with your praise. To gain your… approval again.”

“And that’s absolutely _fine_ ” a small part of John was giddy with the prospect that Sherlock seemed to need him, if only a little bit, after all. “That’s what I’m here _for_. I’m your blogger, and I’m supposed to support you. And I’m failing miserably.”

“You know that you’re more than that, John.”

“Well, then I’m failing in this regard, too.”

“Don’t.“

“But it’s _true_ , Sherlock. You’re here, doing a bloody lovely job in coddling me, while I _shouldn’t need this_. I should be _better_ than this.”

A significant pause. After some time of consideration: “I wasn’t aware that this-“another pause, this time to think of the right way to speak his mind- “ _change_ between us is something to be ashamed of.” Although he spoke with an air of indifference about him, John didn’t miss the small twinge of hurt in his friend’s tone. 

 

“You know what I mean.” John shifted uncomfortably under the prospect having upset his friend, thus drawing attention to the fact that said friend still held him close and secure. The hand above his stomach calmed him, with its warm weight.

“I really don’t.”

John gave him a look over his shoulder. “You’re a genius, you know everything.”

Sherlock, stubbornly, returned said look. “No. You puzzle me.”

John didn’t really know how to reply to that, so he pretended to watch the documentary on whales that was currently running. His mind, though, was anywhere but under the sea.

 

After a small amount of time was spend in this fashion- John stubbornly ignoring Sherlock, and Sherlock regarding him with an unreadable, searching look- the commercial break seemed to break the spell between them.

“Is it really that bad that you want me to care for you?”

John was, to say the least, surprised about the open question directed his way. Sherlock still scarcely spoke about emotions, though he had grown more considerate for the doctor’s and his own. John didn’t, not after the night that changed everything between them, and wished he would never have to. But Sherlock sounded… unsure. And hurt; more hurt than he himself was probably aware of.

 

“It’s complicated.”

 

“Try me, I’m intelligent.”

On any other occasion, the doctor would have sighed and rolled his eyes at Sherlock’s straight-forwardness, but now it was strangely comforting, having the detective treat him like he always treated him; like John wasn’t a changed man because of this. Determined to answer, John realized that he still didn’t really know what to say. He was ashamed of being broken, ashamed of needing the comfort so dearly, ashamed of clinging to Sherlock like some child. Ashamed of being treated like a partner when he was anything but.

Sherlock, obviously misinterpreting the silence, huffed annoyed: “Fine, don’t speak to me, then. I’m trying to be helpful, for the first time in my life, and I’m trying to make up for the sorrow I’ve caused you, but I guess my attempts are not very welcome.”

John, now attempting to light the mood despite the guilt this statement has caused him to feel, pinched Sherlock’s thigh lightly.

 

“You know they are, twat. I’m thankful- I’m sorry if I never say it- so so thankful for everything that you’re doing. You-“ there he hesitated, but decided to better lay it all bare now that he worked up the courage to say it out loud- “you’re no longer falling in my dreams.”

 

“Then why-“ Sherlock continued nonchalant, only the tightening pressure against John’s stomach betraying the effect those words had on him- “are you hiding from me? What are you ashamed of?”

The doctor, now also ashamed of _admitting_ his shame, pressed his lips tightly together and turned, so Sherlock could see his face. An open invitation for deduction, which he normally dreaded. Sherlock thus had started to read him as less as possible. But now, the keenness of those sharp eyes and the conclusions of this ever-working mind felt far less exposing then to answer those questions.

Sherlock took the invitation, and studied him intensely, though without his usual heat, for some minutes. At last, his eyebrows shot up, and his mouth quirked, as if he tried to conceal a sneer and was doing a dreadful job at it.                                                                                                                                    

 

“I have seen and tried my fair share of coping mechanisms, and you’re telling me you’re getting a crisis over your attachment to human affection? Right, John, the desire to sleep next to me, and hug me, and for me to make you happy is truly and utterly disgusting. For shame, John Watson, for shame!”

 

John, for he was not going to let himself be mocked like this, thank you very much, turned his head again, staring at the TV. “I didn’t tell you anything,” he mumbled, even though he was aware of how childish he sounded. He could feel those piercing eyes on the back of his head. The situation was awkward and tense, but nonetheless, his friend stayed seated behind him, and nonetheless, he held him lightly against his lean stomach; and there, right there was this special feeling tingling deep in John’s gut; a feeling he just couldn’t place. Sure, he knew what if meant but…. Not at all what it entailed.                                                                                                                                                               

Most possibly he loved Sherlock. What was he to do about it? Nothing at all. Sherlock probably didn’t even realize he managed to stir up those feelings with his actions; Sherlock was just being considerate and helpful, eager to regain John’s trust and re-start at the place they had left off. Most possibly, Sherlock felt responsible for the sorry state John sometimes was in- although he really was only partly to blame- and saw it was his responsibility, too, to give John what he needed.

As if reading his thoughts, Sherlock suddenly asked, quietly, knowingly. “Do you think I pity you?”  John tensed, and really, that was all the answer that was needed.                                                              

Apparently, it was all it took to get Sherlock going: “Really, I though you were smarter than that. Do you seriously believe that I’m doing this just for you, because I feel _sorry_ for you?  That it’s a necessity- a set of dull niceties I decided to play along to- out of which I gain nothing? Do you think it means _nothing_ to me? I’m not heart-less, John, thank you very much, why would you-“

 

“Because I’m terrified, okay?” He huffed, a little surprised at his own outburst. “There. You got your answer.” He debated storming out of the room, for dramatic reasons, but the warmth of Sherlock’s embrace- which didn’t loosen one bit during their conversation- kept him rooted right where he was. He felt Sherlock’ heartbeat- erratic and fast, and _alive_ \- against his back. A complicated feeling swelled within him, when he once more realized that he had lost this curious man two years ago, and had him back now- safe, sane, alive, and bickering.

 

“That wasn’t really the question I was going for, but okay.” And _annoying_ as ever. “Let’s work with that. What are you terrified of?”

Again, John turned his head, and let the detective’s searching gaze read him. He was an open book, anyway. Where was the use in spelling his insecurities out, when Sherlock could realize them with the blink of an eye? Still, when he felt those familiar eyes set their focus so intently on him, emotions stirred up in him, consuming him, a nervous excitement flooding his body, an itch to just-

 

“That you’ll run out of reasons to stay with me.”

 

There. Out in the open. Exposed.

His deepest fear. It might seem feeble, perhaps, childish even, but… the intensity with which every single gentle action on Sherlock’s part made the desire to… feel like this- cared, and cherished, and _almost_ loved- grow stronger and stronger.                                              

He loved Sherlock Holmes. It terrified him.

 

And just like that, a certain sense of anxiety crept up on him again- not the crushing, but the lingering kind- that caused his stomach to do flips, and a tremor crept into his fingers.

His friend regarded him with a gentle gaze and just- smiled. John wasn’t entirely sure what to do with this reaction.                                                                                                                                                       

“That’s a stupid cause for fear” he said, good-naturedly. “I told you, I won’t leave.”

“How can you be so sure of that? How do you know you won’t get tired of me…. Needing you? Of… caring for me?”

“That’s a stupid question.”

“I’m stupid.” The doctor snapped, getting irritated by the playful way Sherlock was treating this topic. He didn’t feel taken seriously at all.

“You are.” The younger man agreed, now down-right smirking.

 

That at last, stirred the doctor to action. More forcefully than necessary, he pushed the detective’s hands away from his jumper, and made a move to entangle himself from the blanket-cocoon. Hot shame burned deep within him- here he was being open and considerate about his feelings, and Sherlock did nothing but _mock_ them.

Sherlock just circled his waist with his strong legs, trapping him to his spot on the sofa. That only irritated John more: Why couldn’t Sherlock see how important this was to him? Couldn’t he understand the significance of the thing he had just admitted?

 

“John-”

“No, save it. I don’t want to hear it.”

“Alright then.” The younger man mumbled under his breath, before cupping the doctor’s neck gently, and bringing their lips together. John was too shocked to register the kiss for some seconds- an overwhelming sensation of warm! Soft! Sherlock! Flooding his brain, before he caught up on it- and returned the sentiment, with vigor.

 

“Suppose you still don’t want to hear it?” the detective asked breathlessly, parting just enough to speak against his doctor’s lips.

John just smiled, tangling his fingers through Sherlock’s black mane, and drawing him in for another kiss. Because, really, it was all the answer he needed. Sherlock wasn’t pitying him. Sherlock felt the same tingling feeling in his gut, the tingling feeling that was reason enough for him to stay. A sweet promise. Reason enough for John to stop clinging to his desperate need to fix himself. A reliving revelation.

 

They were both so broken. Yet, the fit, like a puzzle piece.

 

They were in love. And, really, that was kind of terrifying too, but the best kind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry that this took forever!!!!
> 
> I hope you guys like it, regardless. Comments, Kudos, and Bookmarks are much appreciated, they really make my day <3

**Author's Note:**

> First Chapter is Sherlock-centric; the second is John-centric. 
> 
> Enjoy; and leave some kudos and comments here while you're at it! <3


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